The Extra Mile
by Jack of the Blades
Summary: Halo one-shot. Recounts the story of Spartan 146, Henry, his experience becoming a Spartan, and the tragedy of the augmentation experiment. Told in first person.


I still remember waking up.

It was on a world far, far away from here. Across the stars, they said. Trees of green and lakes of ice, mountains under the moon, they said. A wild world. A savage world.

We were a band of little children, all terrified, lost in the great big galaxy, and so very, very alone. They brought us in by the dozen, filed us into chairs, made us sit. Then the doctor told us we couldn't go home, that we couldn't see our families anymore. I didn't understand. I didn't want to. Perhaps I still don't.

Then they brought us there, to that green world. On a misty field, in the predawn dark, that first morning, the first morning of the rest of my life, they had us stand in ranks, called us by number.

Number One Four Six. That's what they called me. Henry was my real name, but no one seemed to know that. Not the other children, not the doctor, not the drill sergeant who began lecturing us and drilling into us the military values that would rule our lives from that morning onward. It was that or Boot, but I preferred the number.

The sun rose sometime after that, I'm sure, but the memories all blend together. We trained long and hard, the pounding of our fists and our feet as we ran and fought was like the beating of our hearts, steady, reliable. The families we'd known on the worlds we'd called home faded into memory. We had a new family now. And a purpose.

My family was the dozens of other trainees, the other soldiers, boys and girls who grew into men and women around me, as our training continued. Years of lessons and plans, exercises and missions. Everything had its purpose at that training camp on Reach, else it wouldn't be there.

We had some washouts, kids who couldn't stomach the work, the pain. It was the buzz baton for them, and no dinner. Better luck tomorrow. Soldiers didn't cry.

And we _were_ soldiers. They said we were the best, humanity's only hope for peace. I liked the sound of that. So did my friends. Kelly and John and Douglas, Martin, Alice, and Jerome. We were UNSC, the best and brightest.

Time passed. It's funny. I can hit a target with a sniper rifle at five hundred yards; I can recite the UNSC Marine Code from memory. I've felt the adrenaline rush of action, the euphoria of victory, the pain of failure. I've seen friends beaten, pushed to their limits, and have had the same asked of me. I've felt a man's heart stop beating, moments after I've snapped his neck.

But I still can't remember my mother's face. Maybe it was the same for everyone else, but we never talked much about that.

No, we only cared about the mission, what we were trained to do. And they told us exactly what that mission was: to protect humanity across the stars.

Then the day came, after so many miles running, so many mornings training, so many evenings under those stars, that they told us we were ready. Ready to serve, ready to fight. Ready to become the best they could make us.

We were ready to become Spartans.

The doctors said it would be dangerous. Surgical enhancements, chemical treatments, cybernetic implants, a million and one ways to become better, faster, stronger.

But just as many ways to die.

They told us to stand down, if we wanted to, if we wanted to leave. We stood fast, a legion of Spartans, and we held the line. Not one boot stepped back. I was so proud of them. Of us.

That final night before our lives would change forever, for better or worse, I took a stroll. I walked through the woods, the forests of Reach. I breathed the mountain air, and for the first time I realized I'd never really looked at the stars.

How beautiful they were. So many twinkling lights, dotting the velvet sky. For a moment, just a moment, I was a child again, and I reached out to touch one. Just for a moment.

Between the trunks of the pines, I saw her. Kelly. She came to me, a look of worry on her face. I never realized how pretty she was. I must have blushed, but she didn't see.

"It's funny, isn't it?" she asked, as if reading my mind, moving to stand beside me. She wore the same gray uniform I did, her number blazoned across the lapel. She stood with such confidence, such power. It took me a moment to realize that power was mine, too.

"I never stopped to look at them," I confessed, feeling stupid and childish. She only smiled.

The twilight over Reach began to darken, as night crept on, but for the longest time we stood there, under the stars, watching. Waiting.

Then the dinner bell rung in the valley below, and I began my descent. But after a moment, I felt her hand on my shoulder, fingers so strong she could have killed me instantly, but they only served to ask me to stay, silently.

I turned around. With a smile, and an arching of her fine eyebrow, she asked, challenging, "Care to run?"

We looked around us. The night world of Reach darkened further. Below, the lights from the mess hall glowed merrily.

"Come on, just one mile? For old times' sake?" she coaxed. I shook my head with a grin.

"It's alright." There was a chill in the air, and I was eager to return to the warmth of the station. There would be too much to do in the morning.

Her face fell slightly, but she followed me back down, nevertheless. I'd never held a woman's hand in mine before. Not like this. It felt… exhilarating.

We sat with our friends, and ate together. Laughed together. For many of us, it would be for the last time.

Dawn came swiftly. Our family met on the southern training ground, and the CO spoke to us for a while. He said how pleased he was with us, how we'd do the UNSC proud. He saluted us, for once, and dismissed us to our idling transports, waiting to take us to the medical facility.

Now here I am, lying down in a gurney, so many tubes running out of my body I can't sit up, thinking about my life. My head is shaved bald, cut open to admit a neural lace. My eyes flicker dimly underneath their lids, barely conscious of the world around me.

But I hear the voices. Doctors talk amongst themselves, whispering at first, but they don't know I can hear them. They talk about the upgrades, begin the treatment. Things go dark.

Hours pass. Or maybe minutes. I can't tell. I return to that state of semi consciousness, and the voices are worried now. They mutter about complications, how the implants didn't take. I don't worry. We're Spartans, and we are strong.

I sit here, breathing slowly, calmly. I crack open my eyes. Light rushes in. Pure, white light. I don't know where I am. What day is it? Where are the others?

The beeping of machinery, equipment chiming and making so much pointless noise, comes to my ears. I shake my head, trying to bat away the buzzing in my ears.

Now my eyes adjust. I see a doctor, the woman who made us what we were. She's standing over me. I smile weakly. She's the closest thing to a mother we have. I try to move my arms, to salute, but the strength isn't there. Probably nothing. Just the meds.

She smiles back. A tear appears in her icy blue eyes. What's wrong?

She moves her lips to speak, but I don't hear anything. Doesn't matter. Any soldier can lip-read.

_I'm so sorry. So very, very sorry._

I'm dimly aware that she's holding my hand, and I exert all my will to squeeze it, just a little, to tell her everything is going to be okay.

But it's not. I see the readouts of the machinery. My heart is failing. The experiment is failing. Strange: I don't feel anything.

Quietly, without anger or regret, I curse my weakness. After all the training, all the work, all the pain and all the tears, maybe I just wasn't enough. Not strong enough, not fast enough, not tough enough. After all this, here I lie, dying on a hospital bed. I feel the tears of the doctor on my cheek. It feels like the rain on Reach during a summer storm. Wet, but warm.

I think about my family, my friends. I think about Kelly. What I wouldn't give to see her again…

Not good enough. Never good enough. If only I was just that much faster, that much stronger. Maybe I could beat this thing. But I can't. It's over, and I'll never see Kelly again.

The machinery screams, and the doctor shuts her eyes. I just keep staring into space, seeing the woods of that final night. Seeing the stars.

If only I'd run that extra mile.


End file.
